Lin Zhao knelt on the straw mat, with fine smoke rising from the three incense sticks in front of him, reflecting the words "The Spirit of Lin Hanzhi, the Former Zhenbei General" on the tablet.
He took off the jade bracelet given by his father from his waist and gently placed it on the confession table.
When he was ten years old, his father tied it on the city wall for him after he snatched Yanmen Pass back from the Huns.
"Ah Zhao," my father's voice mixed with the crackle of the campfire in my memory, "you always ask me, why do you have to use an ambush when you can clearly defeat the Huns head-on?"
When he was ten years old, he looked up and saw his father drawing a battle picture on the ground with the tip of a knife: "Soldiers are crafty.
It's not that we are playing tricks, it's our soldiers. Every one of them is someone else's son and husband.
